


Cowgirl Style

by sexysigyn



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Wheatland Music Festival, Wheatland!Tom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexysigyn/pseuds/sexysigyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unnamed OFC is reunited with her BF Tom at the Wheatlands Music Festival and she gives him a reunion to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cowgirl Style

Growing up in the American South, country music was always a part of my life. Living in London the past few years, I found comfort at karaoke parties by taking up an old tune by Patsy Cline or something more contemporary by Martina McBride or Trisha Yearwood. One Sunday a few years back, I was singing along to “ _I’ll Fly Away_ ” by Alison Krause as I cleaned the house in which I lived with my boyfriend; within the week, it appeared on his official Twitter as one of his “Songs of the Day”.

Tom would always give me a good natured ribbing after I got off the phone with relatives and my accent had suddenly gone from the droll “Vuh-gin-yah” Piedmont of my upbringing to nearly a full-on Alabama twang (“It’s more of a Georgia drawl,” I would explain, giggling as he literally poked me in the ribs. “Think Scarlett O’Hara.” But to his English ear, all he heard was  _twang_ ). “It’s your talent of tongue that keeps me coming home,” he would say, alluding to more than just the capriciousness of my accent. 

“What do you know about Hank Williams?” he suddenly asked one night as we caught up over telephone. He was in Toronto filming and I was in London finishing out an appearance in yet another one of the low budget musicals that defined my fledgling career. Being so many time zones apart combined with his crazy shooting schedule, we found time to phone each other maybe once a week. Twice if we were lucky. It was difficult; I missed him dreadfully and the house seemed so quiet without the sound of his laughter, his off-key singing, the random recitations of Shakespeare, or hissing when his early morning coffee was a bit too hot. We would be meeting up in Los Angeles for a much needed, long-overdue holiday in the South Pacific when filming wrapped, but that intervening time threatened to kill me. 

“ _Hey good lookin’/whatcha got cookin’?”_ I sang in a nasally voice. “Personally I’m not much of a fan but he was a pioneer of country music in the late 40s and early 50s. Sometimes when we would travel down to Mobile to visit my mother’s family, we would get near Bristol and my parents would mention that somewhere between there and West Virginia was where ole Hank Senior died. Why?”

“I’ve been approached about the lead role in a bio pic about him…” He hesitated there, almost as if unsure how to proceed.

“And?” I prodded, my tone expectant.

“I’m seriously considering it. It would be a lot of work; I’d have to brush up on my guitar playing and learn to sing. We both know I can’t fucking sing…”

“Darling, that’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you. Just don’t be so hard on yourself. There is a huge difference between not being good at something and not being the best. You’re a hard worker who throws everything you have into a role. Even if you only manage to warble out the soundtrack, you will have done not only what you set out to do but also justice to the memory of a legend. Just do me a favor…”

“What’s that?”

“Steer clear of the pills, booze, and Cadillacs. I might be headed to visit my kith and kin in Dixie in July but I’m not aiming to identify you in a West Virginia hospital.”  

Nearly seven months later, here I was standing backstage at an obscure Michigan music festival, watching with ineffable pride as Tom made his final bow to the crowd, throwing them one last kiss before making his exit. He was effervescent and smiling, not giving any hint of the nerves that riddled him before the show.

“How did I do?” he asked somewhat breathlessly as I raised up on my toes to kiss his cheek.

“You were fabulous,” I enthused as he slipped the guitar strap over his head. Exchanging the instrument for the water I offered, he drained half the bottle in one gulp. “You’re going to nail this role, no matter what the haters say.” With a quick, bright smile, he was off to thank and congratulate Rodney and the musicians for the chance to perform with them. Amid the back clapping and manly, one armed hugs, I situated the woven black strap over my own shoulders and removed the pick from the neck, where Tom had nestled it between the E, A, and D strings. I had taken lessons a few years prior and even owned a couple of very nice guitars but, to my dismay, I was not very good at playing.

“What are you playing?” he asked, interrupting my strumming. Startled out of my concentration, I dragged my fingers across the strings rather than the pick. I cussed in irritation and stuffed the little celluloid triangle in my jeans pocket.

Wordlessly, he helped me remove the strap and watched as I redid my ponytail, holding the shiny Gibson by the neck. “Nothing. Just practicing some chords. Ready to head back?”

He leaned in and kissed me. “I’ll meet you back at the lodge in a bit.”

“Go break hearts, Honky Tonk!” I called to his retreating back. Smiling to myself, I made my way to where my car was parked. If only they knew. Hearts would be shattered if his more devoted fanbase knew of my existence. What a change for me to be the object of envy.  _I liked it._

Back at the small three room cabin in which we were lodging for the few days we were in town, I flipped on the lights in the bedroom and stripped. Tom was out amongst the festival goers, to see and be seen. I did not know how long he would stay out meeting fans and posing for selfies, but I hoped it wouldn’t be long. With the exception of last night when we were both too exhausted to do anything other than fall into bed and sleep, we hadn’t been together since the week before  _High Rise_  wrapped and I had an insatiable need for him.

Evaluating the suitcase that held the selection of lingerie I had brought, I decided to go with the old adage ‘less is more’. Zipping it closed, I donned my black cowboy hat and sauntered barefoot to the living room, grabbing my own Fender acoustic. On a whim I had stuffed it into my car before I made the drive from visiting my folks in Virginia to meet Tom in Michigan. It was a basic instrument; there were no hook-ups, no gain, and the strings needed to be changed but neither its condition nor my lack of expertise in playing mattered. First and foremost, Tom and I were showmen and this was my prop.

Tom stopped dead in his tracks when he walked into the bedroom and saw me sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing my black Stetson and with only the guitar in my lap to cover my nakedness. “ _Every little dream I dream about you/every little thought I think about you/it drives me crazy when you go away/I oughta keep you locked up at home/like a wild horse I want to break you…”_  I sang. By the way his eyes opened wider at the sight before him, I knew I had made the impression I wanted. “… _I love you so much I hate you/ every little thing reminds me of you/ honey when you leave me here all alone.”_

Devious smile spreading across his face, he crouched down and crawled up the bed toward me, removing the guitar from my lap and resting it against the nightstand. “That’s a well-shaped Fender but I much prefer your curves,” he complimented, pulling my face to his as he removed the hat and dropped it on the quilt.

“Make me sing all the right notes,” I encouraged, parting my lips as his mouth met mine.

I sighed into his kiss as his hand trailed down from my neck to grasp my breast, squeezing the tissue and rubbing his palm against the already peaked nipple. Fingers feeling my way down the front of his inky blue shirt, I undid the buttons and pushed on his bare pectorals, skin hot beneath my hands. He sat back on his heels and shrugged the garment off, tossing it into the corner of the room. Lunging toward him, I kissed him with abandon, my tongue pressing on his as he wrapped his arms around my waist and held me close.

“Good God, I missed you,” he breathed as I nipped at his neck. “Why in the hell did I let you leave Ireland early?”

“For the reunion,” I offered cheekily, popping the button on his pants. “Reunion sex is as good as make-up sex.” With a moan, he closed his eyes as I traced my fingers along the taut flesh of his erection, just barely touching him. “You better get comfortable; this rodeo princess is going to give her cowboy the ride of his life.”

Parting the opening of his trousers, I got on my stomach and drew my tongue up the underside of his cock, swirling it around the head before pulling him all the way into my mouth. Peering up at him, his cerulean eyes were glazed with desire, their infinite depths holding me captive as I worked him on pure instinct. He shuddered and groaned when the tip touched the back of my throat, rolling his eyes as his jaw went slack. I tasted the saltiness of precum on my tongue and felt his dark, wiry hair tickle my nose as I deep throated him, feeling him twitch on my tongue as I brought him closer and closer to release. Beginning with my index finger and thumb, adding a new digit with every inch exposed as I pulled my mouth back, I wrapped my hand around his phallus. Tangling his fingers in my hair, I allowed him to dictate the pace of my ministrations until suddenly he pulled his hips back, jerking my lips off his dick with a pop.

“I’ll never last like this,” he panted, roughly yanking me into a kneeling position, flinging me onto my back. Scrambling backward, he pushed my legs apart and dove in, licking at my clit. “Ohh-hhhhh,” I gurgled, feeling him insert two fingers into my pussy, curling them and feeling along the walls. My back arched, my body bent like a bow when he found it. “No, no, please. Yes, just… there… yes,” I cried. Mercilessly he worked me, fingers manipulating my maidenhead as he lapped at the arousal dripping from my cunt. Just as I felt myself teetering at the precipice of orgasm, I grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and pulled him to my face, the heady flavor of me on his lips.

“On your back, cowboy,” I instructed. Obliging, he rolled over biting his lip in anticipation. When we first became intimate, I was terrified of any positions that involved ‘girl on top’. I was too insecure, afraid I would hurt him, or scared that I would be bad. Bad enough that it might even affect our relationship. It took some coaxing, but eventually I became confident enough to take the reins, so to speak. Using his toes, he kicked his shoes off as I pulled his pants down his legs. As I lowered myself onto him, feeling the welcoming fullness deep inside, those fears were far behind me. I picked up the discarded Stetson, holding it down on my head as I rose up on my knees, giving my hips a slow roll as I slid back down on him.

“Oh  _fuck. Fuckfuckfuck,_ ” he groaned, palms flat on my hips guiding me up and down, lifting his backside off the bedcover to thrust up into me. His teeth were bared, breathing coming in shallow hissing sounds as I gyrated on him, riding him harder than a jockey in the Kentucky Derby. Watching his face spurred me on, faster, rougher.

I squealed in surprise when the grip on my hips became tighter and he flipped me onto my back, ploughing into me so hard and deep I screamed. The hat tumbled off my head as it hit the pillow, rolling clean off the side of the bed. Kneeling between my legs, he elevated my legs over his shoulders and leaned forward, grasping my throat. Thrusting into me like a piston, he was at just the right angle that he hit my clit with every pump of his hips. I wailed and clawed at his back, purring like a cat with every stroke.

He released my throat and I reached up, clutching the sides of his face as he lightly bit my lower lip. Muscles tensing, I curled my fingers through his hair and dug my heels deeper between his shoulder blades as my orgasm built. “Ohhhhhh  _fuck!_ Oh God, right there yesyesyes,” I panted, my voice a shrill vibrato.

“Oh baby, fuck, I’m coming,” he moaned, the rhythm of his hips becoming less smooth. I felt his seed fill me, streaming down my backside as he thrust once, twice more, my own release coming within seconds. My legs fell away from their position around his neck heavily as he moved off of me. I rolled onto my side as he stretched out behind me, pressing his chest against my back and snaking his arm between mine and the place where my waist curved into my hip. 

"When was the last time I told you how much I missed you?" he panted, pressing his lips to my shoulder blade. 

“Not recently enough,” I responded, lacing my fingers through his.

“Well I did. When you left Bangor to visit your family here in the US, I was so ‘Lonesome I Could Cry’,” he pouted.

“There were plenty of  _tears in my beer_  too, love. Don’t think I didn’t miss you too.”

Yawning, he placed a trail of butterfly kisses across the hollow between my shoulder and neck, up to my jaw, pausing to allow me to turn my face toward him. “We are together again now and those ‘Lovesick Blues’ are gone.”

“’I Saw the Light’ and I’m lost in the afterglow…” I continued, shamelessly interjecting the name of the upcoming film he was preparing for.

“Are we going to do this all night?”

“I could go until dawn. Or,” I yawned, my eyelids fluttering closed with exhaustion. “until we fall asleep. Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams.”

“Only of you,” he affirmed, drifting off to sleep, holding me tight in his arms.


End file.
